


I Don't Miss You At All

by aliferuined



Series: getting late to give you up [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Fluff, M/M, everyone is stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-15 21:57:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliferuined/pseuds/aliferuined
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis goes on tour, and Nick definitely does not pine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Miss You At All

Louis leaves at 5:30 on a Saturday morning. It’s far too early to be getting out of bed on a weekend – Nick gets up at the absolute arse crack of dawn during the week, he deserves a sleep-in – and besides, he wouldn’t be allowed to see Louis off at the airport. He stirs when he feels the bed dip, cracks his eyes open just enough to see Louis leaning over him, a little smile playing at his lips.

 

“Ggnhuh?” Nick asks, voice thick and cracking. Louis shakes his head, huffing in quiet laughter.

 

“Yes, dear. Sure you’re not up for a goodbye shag?”

 

“What, I didn’t tire you out enough last night?” Nick replies, his voice evening out into something resembling human speech. He waggles his eyebrows and reaches out to slap Louis playfully on the arse. His arm seems to be made of lead, though, so he ends up pushing his fingers against Louis’ thigh pathetically before flopping it back down onto the mattress. Louis laughs, that bubbling, sweet one he does when Nick does something to please him, and dips down to kiss Nick’s hairline.

 

“Try not to miss me too much,” he says, his face unbearably smug. Nick scoffs, flapping his hand in what he hopes is an incredibly disparaging manner. Louis raises an eyebrow, his expression far more knowing than a 20-year-old has any right to be. His hips sway ludicrously as he leaves the room, and Nick is almost ( _almost_ ) too tired to appreciate it.

 

“I’ll be fine,” Nick tells the empty room.

 

**

 

Five hours later, Nick wakes up properly. The sheets are knotted around his hips and his face is crushed into a pillow that smells exactly like Louis – his Gucci cologne and coconut shampoo – and Nick is sluggish from oversleeping, so he stays there for the next twenty minutes.

 

He doesn’t need to cook a hot breakfast, because Louis isn’t there to insist on it, so he pours himself a bowl of cereal. He listens to the morning radio show, but there’s no one there to insult the presenters’ terrible jokes and truly horrific playlist, so he downs his orange juice and goes back to bed instead.

 

To be perfectly honest, the tour couldn’t have come at a better time. They’ve been dating for nearly six months now, making his relationship with a much younger pop star his longest relationship to date. His mother would be so disappointed in him – that is, if she didn’t think Louis was the second coming of Christ. He’s not used to having attachments like this, of having to constantly think about someone else all day and wonder what they’re doing and make sure they know what you’re doing and consider their feelings about almost everything.  Nick’s met the Tomlinson family, as well as all his friends from Doncaster – potentially the most daunting experience of his (relatively) young life –and Louis calls Nick’s mother more than _he_ does. Louis stays over at Nick’s place more nights than not, and Nick comes home from the show most mornings to find a boy in his bed and a coffee on his nightstand and it’s just. A lot.

 

It’s not that he doesn’t have fun with Louis, because he definitely does. It’s just that it’s all moving so _fast_ , and he really, really wasn’t lying when he said he’s not the boyfriend type. Louis keeps doing all these things that are infuriatingly _considerate_ , and Nick can’t help but feel smothered by it.

 

A break is good.

 

**

 

Nick texts Louis later that morning, because he doesn’t want to be a shit boyfriend. At least, no more than he already is.

 

_How was the flight? Make any stewardesses cry? x_

Louis doesn’t respond for a full forty-five minutes, which is unusual. His phone is practically welded to his palm, as a general rule. Back when they were testing the waters of their relationship, Nick had always held back on how fast he’d reply to a text– not wanting to appear clingy – until Louis had told him he was being a silly twat and should stop keeping him waiting.

 

_couldn’t even last the day without me, babe? knew it... :) x_

Nick is torn between scowling and smiling, and feels rather relieved no one is there to witness the horrendous grimace that results. Louis has an astounding ability to be a frustrating little brat, even from thousands of miles away.

 

He gets sympathetic texts from friends all day, all variations of _hope you’re doing okay, he’ll be back before you know it_ , and Nick has no idea when people started to view him as a ridiculous co-dependent unable to go two months without his boyfriend. It’s absurd; he’s looking forward to the peace and quiet, and he tells everyone so.

 

He likes Louis, he really does, but the boy has far too much energy to burn and Nick has been the focus of it for the past several months; it’s exhausting. Nick is going to use this time to catch up on his favourite television shows, maybe read a few books, broaden his horizons, all that jazz.

 

If he’s honest, the main problem with his relationship is that it _works_ , and Nick has seen too many of his friends go down this road before. It burns too hot, too fast, and the next thing you know you’re tied down with a mortgage, and SUV and a pension plan. If there’s a reason Nick’s never allowed himself to get caught up in a long-term relationship, that would be it.

 

 **

 

The first thing Nick does is exercise his God-given right to go out clubbing without having anyone to  bitch and moan and pester him about coming home the whole night. He stays out far later than any sensible person doing breakfast radio for a living would, and he doesn’t even get one _you are a sad old man, stop getting drunk with your wretched friends in the middle of the week_ text. He goes out every night, because there’s no one at home queuing up Netflix and waiting for him to prepare dinner. It takes him only four days to be exhausted – the kind of exhausted you feel in your _bones_ , like sleep wouldn’t even be enough to fix it – which is a little depressing. He declines from whining to Louis about it, because he knows exactly what he’d say. He goes to work nauseous from lack of sleep, and there’s no one there to fix him cups of tea or stroke his hair, which is fine. He’s a big boy.

 

At the end of the first week, Nick washes his sheets. When he goes to bed that night, Louis’ smell is gone from the bed. Which, really, he should have predicted, and it’s fine, he just hadn’t thought of it when he did the laundry. He must have put too much starch in the machine, because he’s tossing and turning all night, waking up _constantly_ , and he’s more of a zombie than usual the next morning.

 

Work keeps him as busy as ever, and he sees all the friends he’s been neglecting since he’d gotten together with Louis. He’s a social butterfly at heart, and he makes the most of all his spare time. He could get used to all the lunches, the drinks, the parties; he doesn’t even mind going home alone. He only manages to speak to Louis over the phone a few times – they’re rarely free at the same time – but he doesn’t mind that either. Louis catches him on Skype of a Thursday, and it’s the first time they’ve actually seen each other since he left.

 

“You’re a wreck without me, babe,” Louis says, grinning up at him from the laptop screen. Nick checks his appearance in the little window in the corner of the screen. It’s depressingly unforgiving. He rakes his fingers through his hair, pulling a ridiculous face at Louis.

 

“Some of us had to work this morning, dearest. We can’t all be glamorous international pop stars, can we?”

 

He really is a wreck, though. Louis must have just come from a television show, or an appearance somewhere, because his hair is done perfectly and he’s wearing designer clothes instead of the soft tracksuit pants and t-shirts he favours at home. Compared to him, Nick is basically Sasquatch.

 

“Eyebags are a perfectly natural part of aging, there’s really no need to be ashamed,” Louis offers, incredibly unsympathetic.  “There’s no excuse for that hair, though.”

 

“Has anyone ever told you that you’ve unrealistically high standards?”

 

“There’s no crime in wanting the best for yourself,” Louis sniffs, and, well.

 

**

 

By the start of week two, Nick is more sexually frustrated than he can remember being, despite this being one of the shortest dry spells he’s ever experienced. He tries batting off to some of Louis’ pictures – Louis makes him delete dirty pictures after he’s sent them, so he has to settle for ones with Louis’ sleeves rolled up or little slivers of belly exposed – but it’s far from the same, so he calls him one afternoon when he knows Louis will be in his hotel room getting ready to sleep.

 

“Missing me?” Louis asks in his most obnoxious voice. “We only spoke this morning. It’s cute, really.”

 

Nick sighs heavily into the handset.

 

“Can we go on Skype?” he asks, figuring he might as well just get straight to it.

 

“Sorry babe, Liam’s borrowing my laptop since he broke his. Why?”

 

Nick’s frustrated groan seems to answer the question for him.

 

“ _Oooh_. Naughty boy, Grimshaw,” he says, sly, and Nick can just picture his grin. “We could try it on the phone, if you want?”

 

Nick hums a yes, already unzipping his pants and lifting his hips just enough to push them down around his thighs, wrapping a hand around his dick. He wonders if Louis’ already in bed, or if he’s maybe just come from the shower; his skin pink and glowing, hair curling at the nape of his neck and beads of water still drying on his collarbones.

 

“What are you wearing, then?” Louis asks, hesitant, clearly not quite sure what to say. His voice is even raspier than it usually is, the way it gets when he’s properly knackered, and Nick strokes himself idly.

 

“Erm,” Nick says, glancing down at himself, “Jeans. And a t-shirt.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“I’m not wearing underwear?” Nick offers, because he probably should have made up something sexy.

 

“You went to work without underwear?” Louis asks, incredulous.

 

“ _Darling_ ,” Nick grits, annoyed, and tightens his grip, “Have you been thinking of me?”

 

“Mmm, yeah,” Louis says, voice hitting that perfect register, “I’ve, um. I’ve been thinking of... your cock?”

 

Nick blinks, and Louis _umms_ , and neither of them speaks.

 

“We should probably wait till you can get on Skype, do you think?” Nick asks mildly, and Louis hurriedly agrees; he hears Louis zip up his trousers.  After they hang up, they try sending sexy text messages instead, which actually turns out to be a worse idea than the phone sex. They both spend far too long trying to come up with something exciting to say, and neither of them are particularly good with the written word, so Louis goes to bed and Nick jerks off furiously, trying to visualise Louis on his knees.

 

**

 

Midway through week three, Nick buys coconut shampoo. It’s not the same brand, apparently, because his bed still doesn’t smell like Louis, and Nick tries to not be too frustrated at himself. He flat out refuses to go and buy Louis’ cologne, lest he forfeit his dignity entirely.

 

Apparently he doesn’t value his dignity all that much, because a few days later he gives in and watches their latest interview on youtube. It’s a slightly different Louis, this one that shows up in interviews. He looks perfect this way, his tan perhaps more golden than usual, his smile brighter than ever under the flattering lights of the studio. He’s sharp and witty, energy practically rolling off him in waves as he bounces in his seat. The interviewer asks a genuinely daft question, and Nick watches as Louis bites his lip rather than verbally decimate her. It’s different to the Louis that wakes up in his bed, grumpy and mumbling, barely even able to open his eyes, his usually perfectly coiffed hair in a soft-looking tangle.

 

He spends the next hour and a half irately replying to trolls calling Louis names, getting more and more creative with his threats until his youtube account is suspended and he realises he may have to re-evaluate his life.

 

**

 

Louis is bustling around his hotel room with Harry the next time they Skype, packing their bags for the next tour date.

 

“How are your parents? Did your mum end up re-doing the living room?” he asks, shoving three shirts at once into his suitcase. Harry looks on with mournful eyes, silently folding a pair of trousers at the crease.

  
“ _Please_ don’t tell me you actually care about the state of my mother’s furnishings,” Nick says. To be perfectly honest, Nick had forgotten completely about his mother’s refurbishment plans. He never fails to be baffled about the things Louis will remember about people, the way he seems to actually _care_ about the details most find dull.

 

“I bet you miss having me around to get you into her good books, right?”

 

“ _Louis_ ,” Nick says, levelling an exasperated glare at the screen, “Whenever you two get together you spend literally the entire time pointing out my flaws. The last time we did brunch you both spent a full forty-five minutes complaining about my phone etiquette.”

 

Louis is throwing shoes into his suitcase now, right on top of his clothes. Harry dives in and plucks the shoes back out, muttering, _you need to_ fold _, everything will be wrinkled_ as he slips them into plastic bags.

 

“She loves you better by virtue of having me around,” Louis smirks, but he’s distracted by Harry’s fussing. He tickles Harry’s ribs, says, “Did you want to just finish that for me? There’s a love.”

 

Harry grins happily, like Louis’ doing him a favour, “’Course, boo.”

 

Louis lies down on his stomach in front of the laptop, feet crossing at the ankle and his chin in his hands like a schoolgirl.

 

“Got me all to yourself now, babe,” Louis says, his smile stretching wide across his sharp little teeth. It _hits_ Nick then, like a physical slap, and he has to hang up, he _has_ to, because Louis is too far away to touch, or smell, or hear without the distortion of an internet connection, and Nick has a lump in his throat. He really doesn’t want to embarrass himself.

 

“Listen, I’m heading out to lunch with Pixie in a minute and I really need to put some washing on before I go. I’ll talk to you later?”

 

“Oh. Alright?” Louis says, his face dropping. Harry looks up from the suitcase with a little frown, mouthing _say I miss you_ complete with a love heart gesture and frantic pointing at the back of Louis’ head.

 

“Bye, love,” Nick replies, ignoring Harry’s indignant face, and disconnects.

 

His phone buzzes almost immediately, and keeps on buzzing.

 

_U NEED TO TELL LOUIS YOU MISS HIM GOD NICK I DONT EVEN KNOW LIKE HOW R U THE WAY THAT YOU ARE HAVEN’T YOU EVER SEEN THE NOTEBOOK_

_???? HELLO NICHOLAS_

_IF LOU’S A BIRD UR A BIRD_

_I WANT ALL OF YOU FOREVER EVERYDAY!!!!!_

_um that wasn’t me i meant like lou_

_not that lou said that its from the notebook_

_could u just call me please?_

Nick drags a hand down his face and snaps out a quick reply, _He’s not that needy, Harold. Relax._

_ARE WE EVEN TALKING ABOUT THE SAME BOY U APE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

Nick doesn’t dignify that with a response, and he eats lunch alone.

 

**

 

They don’t get better at long-distance sex. At all. They try once more over Skype, but they end up giggling for the first three minutes until Louis tells him the angle he’s at gives him a double chin, and Nick is forced to disconnect on principle. After that, they stick to sending each other dirty pictures, like always. Nick’s particularly careful to keep his chin angled down.

 

He wakes up of a Wednesday morning to a picture from Louis. And he knows, he _knows_ , he should be focussing on Louis’ tanned thighs, or his fingers stretching out his mouth, but all he sees is his own shirt hanging off Louis’ shoulders; it’s far too big for him, and fuck, _fuck_ , his sheets don’t smell a _thing_ like Louis anymore.

 

The radio show seems to stretch out for hours longer than it really does, and he’s perhaps a little snarkier than usual, a little snippier with his answers. He drinks four cups of coffee, no sugar, develops a pounding headache, and goes straight home to sleep on the couch.

 

He starts to go out a little less. It’s probably just that the novelty’s worn off, and he’s tired from work. Every single one of his friends seems to have a boyfriend or a girlfriend, which is just ridiculous, and he’s getting a little sick of watching them hold hands and cuddle and do disgustingly sweet things like feed each other off their own forks. He’s never been one for public displays of affection, is all.

 

He keeps himself busy around the house, instead. He organises his iTunes, creating a separate playlist for Louis’ terrible music. He does all the laundry, which takes a lot less time than it usually does because Louis isn’t there to throw his clothes all over the house like the most frustrating treasure hunt of all time.

 

He tries not to look at the picture too much during the day, and ends up jerking off till his cock is sore and his hand is cramping that night.

 

**

 

After that, he starts to pull away. Stops calling so much, and doesn’t reply to texts for hours, if at all. He lets Louis’ calls go to voicemail. It hurts – really more than Nick is willing to admit – but he has to do it. He will _not_ becoming a clingy boyfriend, sitting at home wringing his hands while Louis is off gallivanting. He wants to go clubbing, and get _papped_ again – Louis hates that – and sleep in till noon on the weekends. Nick absolutely does not want to sit at home thinking about how much he misses Louis.

 

He takes a call from Louis on a Saturday, when the guilt gets to be too much.

 

 “Coping without me, then?” Louis asks, and a few weeks ago it would have been confident, bratty. Today, it’s self-conscious, a little subdued, and Nick pretends that doesn’t make him feel like an arsehole.

 

“I’m _fine_ , thank you very much. I’ll have you know I’m quite enjoying having the house to myself for once.”

 

They both make a half-hearted attempt at small talk before lapsing into an expectant silence.

 

“Why haven’t you been calling me?” Louis asks, trying to keep his voice light, and Nick feels his patience give.

 

“Do I really need to call you every single day?” he asks, frustrated, “You’re on tour. What, we can’t live without each other for a few weeks?”

 

He’s angry with himself, he _knows_ that, and he still can’t help but take it out on Louis. It shouldn’t be like this, it _wasn’t_ like this until Louis forced his way into Nick’s life and turned him into this sappy mess.

 

“Do you want me to apologise for calling you, or something? Fucking hell, Nick, what’s your problem?” Louis snaps, and Nick can hear the genuine _hurt_ in his voice.

 

“Alright, alright. I’m just a bit tired, I suppose. Sorry, darling,” Nick says, and it doesn’t sound sincere even to his own ears.

 

Nick tries to have a proper conversation, but it’s forced and stilted; Louis refuses to give an inch when he’s angry, and he’s clearly _furious_. Nick makes his excuses and Louis doesn’t bother to call him on it. Nick hangs up, and they fight all the time, they really do, but this one feels different. Mostly because Nick _knows_ he started this one, started it on purpose.

 

**

 

Three days later, Nick sees paparazzi photographs of Louis out at a club with some boy.

 

To be a little fairer, he’s out with Zayn and a group of hangers-on, he supposes, but he can’t help but notice how close the boy is standing to Louis (as he goes through _every single photograph_ ), how the boy has his hand on the back of Louis’ neck.  Nick is absolutely _not_ a jealous boyfriend.

 

It’s an hour before Nick is back home and on Skype.

 

“Have fun last night?” he asks as soon as Louis appears, eyes a little puffy.

 

“Um, yeah?” Louis replies, clearly baffled. He sounds tired, and his hair is mussed like he’s just out of bed, which really doesn’t go very far in helping Nick’s mood.

 

“Who’s the guy?” Nick asks, keeping his voice mild. Louis blinks, clearly trying to connect the dots, “That guy at the club. Tall, dark hair, terrible taste in trousers.”

 

“This is what you’re calling me about? Nick, he’s just some guy. I don’t even think he’s queer. You’re not _seriously_ jealous over some random guy that stood next to me for a night.”

 

Louis still looks out of it, but a little pleased, which drives Nick up the _wall_. He’s got that look in his eye that he gets when one of his schemes comes together, and all of a sudden Nick is almost certain Louis’ done it on purpose; let the boy put a hand on his waist because he knew Nick would look, and Nick is _far_ too old to be playing these games.

 

“I’m not jealous,” Nick says, defensive, “I’m only calling to say it’s fine. Whatever. You know, do what you want.”

 

Louis is silent, staring at him from behind the screen for long enough to make Nick squirm.

 

“What do you mean,” he says flatly, leaning forward towards the camera as if he might see something new on Nick’s face. Nick forces his voice into something steady, something flippant, and tries not to let it all show in his expression.

 

“I just mean, if you want to do _that_ , it’s fine. You’re a young, beautiful pop star, you’re in a foreign country, I get it. Whatever.”

 

Louis closes his eyes – it’s something he does right before he’s about to explode, Nick’s seen it too many times to not be wary of it – and his mouth pulls into a sneer.

 

“What, you want to fuck other people? Is that it?”

 

Nick shrugs, even though he most _certainly_ does not, but he’s angry enough to ignore his better judgement.

 

“I mean to say that it doesn’t have to be all that serious, does it? We’re both adults, and I think we can both be realistic about having a relationship, can’t we,” Nick says, and he’s well aware of how condescending he’s being, but he can’t seem to stop himself.

 

“It’s not unrealistic to expect your _boyfriend_ to not fuck other people, Nicholas,” Louis snaps, hunched over the screen now. His expression is _murderous_.

 

“I did tell you I’m not boyfriend material, didn’t I? So you really can’t blame it all on me.”

 

There’s a long, heavy silence, and for the life of him Nick _cannot_ open his mouth to take back what he’s just said. It’s true, anyway, and he’s never been one to shy away from the truth regardless of the dreadful way it makes Louis’ face change, twisting up like he’s swallowed glass. Nick Grimshaw does not _do_ boyfriends, he never has, and this is _exactly_ why.

 

“You’re not fucking serious right now, are you?” Louis asks, his face going red and blotchy, and when Nick doesn’t respond, “ _Are you_? Fuck you, Nick. You self-righteous fucking pompous _arse_ , I should’ve known and I told Harry a million times this would happen, didn’t I? You can go fuck yourself.”

 

Louis disconnects, and Nick doesn’t call back, because, well. It’s all for the best, really. He slams his laptop shut with shaking hands, which, while pathetic, does make him feel slightly better.

 

It takes Harry a full hour to text him, which Nick _knows_ is a bad sign, because it means he was with Louis and unable to leave his side until now. The knowledge that Louis is that upset makes him more nauseous than he already was.

_you aren’t seriOUS NICK NO COME ON_

_two weeks ago  u told me you wore louis’ hoodie just becuase you it reminded you of his hugs?? What are you doing with ur life right now seriously???_

_your almost thirty you need to get your shit together. y are you being vain about this??_

Nick tries valiantly not to pull his hair out with frustration, replies, _I told you that in confidence, Styles. If you mention that to him, I will tell embarrassing stories about you live on air._

_is this a joke to you?? because ive just had lou crying on my shoulder for most of an hour and im not laughing. u did this and u need to fix it._

Nick could _scream_ , because Harry’s just a child when it comes to these things, really, with childish expectations. But Nick knows better. He turns his phone off.

 

**

 

Halfway through the second month, Nick finds himself half-drunk at midday, in only his dressing gown, watching re-runs of Downton Abbey and hurling abuse at the characters on the screen.

 

“You need to get on with your life, Anna! _You have to be your own person!_ ” he shouts, gesturing with his right arm, and half a pizza slides off his lap and lands toppings side down on the carpet. He hasn’t spoken to Louis for a week and a half, which is approximately the same amount of time it’s been since he left the house for anything other than work or greasy takeout. He has no idea if they’ve broken up or not, and he has one hundred – quite literally _one hundred_ – texts from Harry that say only _NICHOLAS GRIMSHAW_. It’s genuinely terrifying.

Nick is furious at himself, really. Because he has everything he’d been waiting for – he can listen to his jazz records without hearing a single complaint, and watch French movies without having the channel changed on him, and stretch out on his bed without having a warm body curled up next to him. This is what he wanted all along, isn’t it? He wanted to prove that he wasn’t like the rest of them, wasn’t made for a relationship, and didn’t get pinned down like everyone else.

 

The week before Louis gets back, Nick spends three consecutive hours drumming up the courage to text Louis and all he comes up with is, _Can I see you when you get back? xx_

 

It’s as close to an admission of guilt as Nick generally gets.

_I’ll be too busy fucking other people_ , comes the reply from Louis almost instantly.

And that, Nick thinks, probably settles that. He figures it’s probably a mistake to text Harry for advice, but he can’t think of what else to do.

 

_How do I get him to forgive me?_

_i realise that u don’t understand your emotions so u cant react properly. but have u tried saying sorry?? JUST A TIP NICK_

All at once, Nick remembers why he doesn’t ask Harry for romantic advice – particularly on the subject of Louis.

 

_It’s more complex than that, young Harold._

_HOW DOES A MIND AS SIMPLE AS URS MAKE THINGS SO COMPLICATED??!?_

Nick sighs heavily, though there’s no one there to appreciate it. He really needs to get new friends.

 

 

**

 

Nick goes out clubbing for the first time since the big fight with Louis, and it’s an absolute fucking disaster. He gets _trashed_ and ends up sitting on the floor of a filthy toilet stall, slurring his heart out to Henry. He’s surprisingly apathetic about the entire ordeal.

 

“The thing is, mate. The thing. Is that I didn’t want to be a boyfriend,” he says, knocking his head back against the door of the stall, probably exposing his hair to ten different diseases. “But I am now? And I don’t want to want it but I do want it a lot?”

 

Henry just shrugs, taking another pull from his beer.

 

“You don’t know Lou, that’s the problem here. You can’t... he’s like _sunshine_ , fuck, and he’s lovely and bright and warm. Have you seen his face? I bet you haven’t seen his face, and his _laugh_? Christ. And his _arse_ – ” Nick says, and is promptly cut off.

 

“Right, mate, I think we’d better get you home,” Henry says, hauling him up by the arms, and Nick struggles to get his slipping feet underneath him.

 

“But he’s not there. I don’t want to,” Nick says, hiccupping so loudly it echoes off the walls of the bathroom and startles a stranger at the urinals.

 

“Too bad for you,” says Henry, and then he’s being dragged through the club, stuffed into a taxi and driven home. Nick hums Britney Spears sadly to himself for the entire trip. He makes it upstairs without incident, unless you count severely bruised toes as an incident, and he’s fairly certain he paid the driver at least three times his fare. He throws up into the sink, leaves all his clothes in a heap outside the bathroom door and crawls into bed as the room spins. He feels as though he might be sick again as he calls Louis, the phone ringing deafeningly as he presses it up tightly against his ear. He wants to hear Louis’ voice, raspy and light, even get yelled at, because that’s fine too as long as he gets to hear him.

 

The phone rings out instead. He doesn’t even get to hear Louis in a voicemail recording, because it’s just a generic one asking him to leave a ten second message.

 

“ _God_ , I miss you. I thought I wanted a break but I don’t, I miss you, I really _fucking_ miss you and I wish you’d come home,” he slurs, and the answering machine beeps.

 

**

 

He wakes up to a splitting headache, a foul taste in his mouth, and that’s about it. There’s no missed call from Louis, no message. He spends the rest of the weekend in bed eating nothing but microwave burritos and attempting to come to terms with the fact that he’s the most pathetic adult man in existence. He’s not brave enough to call Louis again, not even to save face. He figures it’s best he wallow alone with the scant remainders of his pride. They arrive back home on Sunday morning.

 

By Sunday night, he’s run out of milk, toilet paper, washing liquid, and almost every other item essential for a normal adult life. It’s probably time to face the grocery store, so he pulls on a pair of jeans instead of the track pants that desperately need a wash. He’s in his car, just peeling out of the driveway, when he gets a phone call from Louis. It’s like a knife to the chest, and Nick almost causes an accident in his haste to pull up to the curb.

 

“Hello?” he answers, a little breathless.

 

“Yeah,” Louis says stiffly, hesitant, and they’re both quiet for a moment. “So, apparently you missed me? Because I was getting the impression that you didn’t, at all. Actually, it seemed like you were glad I was gone.”

 

“ _No_ ,” Nick says, “I missed you so much. I just. Can I come talk to you? Please?”

 

“No,” Louis says, and he’s being very careful to keep his voice steady, and it’s _painful_ because Nick knows he doesn’t want to talk to him face to face because he hates crying in front of anyone.

 

“Okay. That’s okay. I’ll just. You know I’m not good with this stuff, right?” Nick asks, and he’s already off to a bad start with that, so he continues, “I missed you desperately and I overreacted. I felt so pathetic, sitting at home thinking of you, and I didn’t want to get clingy.”

 

“But I was calling you _too_. I told you I missed you all the time, it’s not like you were the only one,” Louis replies, clearly frustrated.

 

“I know. I’ve been _such_ an idiot, Lou. A complete and utter tit. I don’t know what I can say to get you to forgive me, you have to understand how sorry I am,” he pleads, gripping the steering wheel till his knuckles go white when Louis doesn’t reply, “I love you _so_ much.”

 

And there it is. The first time he’s said it, to _anyone_ , and he feels sick but he figures if there’s ever a time to put it all out there, this is probably it.

 

“Okay,” Louis says, but his voice hasn’t changed, still thin and sad, “I have to. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

 

“Alright. I’m sorry, Lou,” Nick says, and Louis is gone. Nick sits in his car, trying to slow his heart rate down to something reasonable through sheer force of will. It’s a little comfort that Louis is at least talking to him, but by all rights he really shouldn’t forgive him, and what if he _doesn’t_? What if he just wants to be friends, or even worse, just fuck buddies – so Nick can touch him, but doesn’t get to love him anymore?

 

Nick backs into the driveway, because milk can wait for another day, and he’s just going straight to bed in any case. He doesn’t need washing liquid to drown in his own misery.

 

Monday’s show is potentially his worst to date. He’s irrationally furious at every tweet and every call, and he plays every single song from the separate Louis playlist he created despite numerous complaints. He plays _Stay With Me Baby_ , and cries, actually _cries_ a little during the screaming bit, and Finchy diplomatically decides not to comment. Nick doesn’t mention One Direction even once.

 

The worst part of it is, he’s seen friends go through break-ups so many times and not once understood. Honestly, he’d always thought they were being a little dramatic – crying into family-sized blocks of chocolate or drinking themselves into a stupor just because they’d broken it off with someone. Nick guesses that means he’s never really _had_ someone before, not properly, and it feels like a stab to the gut.

 

By the end of the show, he’s gotten about thirty messages from various people asking if he needs to go out for a drink or a quiet chat. He expects there to be one from Harry, because he’s usually listening, but there’s not. That one hurts a little more than it should; given the fact that he probably deserves it. He goes home instead, and picks up a family block of chocolate on the way, because why the fuck not.

 

He gets all the way through the hall and into the living room before he notices the smell of fresh coffee floating through the house. He’s almost ninety percent sure he didn’t make coffee this morning, and there’s no one in the kitchen, so he heads upstairs to his bedroom. Inside, there’s a coffee on his nightstand and a boy in his bed.

 

**

 

“Lou?”

 

Louis stirs, eyes blinking open through his lashes, and he pushes his hair off his forehead.

 

“Christ,” Nick breaths, dumping his phone and wallet on the carpet and walking straight to the bed, gathering Louis up in his arms like a ragdoll and just _breathing_ him in. “ _Darling_.”

 

Louis winds his legs around Nick’s thighs, his arms around his shoulders, and pushes his fingers into Nick’s hair. Nick buries his face in Louis’ neck, his fingers digging into skin, and Louis still hasn’t spoken. An hour ago Nick thought he’d be lucky to get to _talk_ to Louis, let alone hold him, and he’s making the most of it in case he never gets this chance again.

 

“I’m sorry,” Nick says, mouth against Louis’ throat, “And I missed you, I should have said it every day from the day you left.”

 

“You’re not forgiven, you know,” Louis mumbles, digging his knuckles painfully into Nick’s kidneys. Nick props himself up on his elbow, getting his first proper look at Louis’ face. He looks tired – he never sleeps on flights, and his heart _hurts_ when he remembers that Louis doesn’t sleep well alone, either. He looks angry, but sort of reluctantly fond, which Nick hopes is a good sign.

 

“I’ll make it up to you,” Nick says, running a thumb across Louis’ cheekbone, his eyebrow, “Promise. I’ll cook you proper dinners, and I’ll take you to that Britney concert next month. Front row.”

 

Louis snorts, pushes at Nick’s face a little with his palm, “You do realise that being my boyfriend means you have to admit you miss me when I’m gone? And not just when you’re drunk off your face, most likely tearing up to episodes of Say Yes To The Dress.”

 

Nick nods emphatically, leaning down to press three quick kisses to Louis’ lips, not quite sure if he’s allowed.

 

“I missed you,” he says again, because it probably bears repeating, “You do realise you’ve completely destroyed my aloof hipster image? It took years to develop that. Now everyone knows I’m lovesick and it’s terribly embarrassing.”

 

Louis rolls his eyes, but his cheeks flush, and Nick has to kiss him again. It’s deep and slow, the way Louis likes to be kissed in the morning, and Nick cannot _believe_ he almost fucked this up.

 

"Move in with me, maybe?" he asks, and Louis has a funny look on his face so, naturally, he rambles, "I just want to be romantic here, and that seems like one of those Big Gestures everyone's always going on about, right? To be honest - because that's what I'm doing now, okay - I really just want to wake up every single morning like this. I could barely sleep without you, and it wasn’t the same having breakfast without you there, and –"

 

He doesn’t get the chance to finish his incredibly eloquent speech, because Louis cuts him off with a hand in his face, looking at him like he’s an enormous idiot.

 

“Nicholas. I sleep here almost every night. Half your closet is full of my clothes, my toothbrush is on the sink, and we have matching slippers,” he says, “What did you think we were doing here?”

 

Nick blinks, running through the past nine months in his head, and Louis has a point.

 

“I’m really not good at this, am I?”

 

Louis snorts, rolling them over and pressing Nick’s shoulders down into the bed with a little more force than is probably necessary. Nick counts it as a victory, anyway, because _technically_ Louis said yes.

 

“You’re lucky I love you, because you’re without a doubt the thickest man I’ve ever met,” he says, and there’s that hint of uncertainty in his voice, and Nick can’t have that anymore.

 

“I love you too,” he says, and for once, he gets it right. A grin splits Louis’ face and he flushes happily, dipping down to kiss Nick again.

 

“ _Idiot_ ,” he says against Nick’s lips, but he’s happy, and Nick feels his stomach unclench for the first time in weeks. They’re kissing properly now, Nick clutching at Louis’ hips, fingers digging into the warm skin he finds there. “We still have to talk about this. But I missed you _so_ much.”

 

“Can I?” Nick asks, tugging at Louis’ shirt, because he wants to _see_ him and photographs are nothing compared to the way his skin feels against Nick’s fingertips. Louis nods, letting Nick tug his shirt up and over his head, and shoves Nick’s own shirt up to bunch around his arms. They press together, hips lining up _just_ right, and Nick slips a hand down the back of Louis’ sleep pants and tugs him forward, grinding their hips in a slow roll.

 

“I think you owe me a blowjob,” Louis says, biting down gently on Nick’s bottom lip. Nick figures that’s fair enough, so he rolls Louis off and tugs his pants down, the elastic snapping against Louis’ skin when he pulls too fast.

 

“Eager, are we?” Louis asks, spreading his legs like he _knows_ just how good he looks. His skin is practically glowing, and Nick stares greedily at Louis’ thick thighs, his soft belly and pink, curved cock. Nick thinks his throat might be too swollen to reply, so instead he curls his fingers around Louis and takes him into his mouth. Louis shivers, his hips rolling and his thighs coming up to close around Nick’s head, and he breathes out a soft little, “ _Fuck_.”

 

Nick had missed Louis’ taste, the way he felt on his tongue, and the way Louis always loses control like this. He slides his hands up Louis’ thighs, pressing them back down onto the bed to give him space to bob his head, swirling his tongue around the head before taking Louis deep into his throat.

 

“ _Nick_ ,” Louis hisses, his foot kicking out like it always does when it’s _really_ good. Louis arches his back, stretching, and just as Nick looks up to check what he’s up to Louis is pushing a small bottle of lube into one of his hands. _Oh_. Nick pulls off, flipping up the cap of the bottle and stroking Louis soothingly with his other hand.

 

“Eager, are we?” Nick repeats, just to see Louis’ indignant expression before he slides his middle finger in. Louis’ eyes flutter closed, his head dropping back down onto the pillow to show off the long line of his neck. He works his finger in the same rhythm of his other hand until Louis kicks at his ribs, clearly waiting for another finger, so Nick obliges. He can’t help but think about how much longer his fingers are than Louis’, how Louis’ only had his own for the past two months, and presses in deeper, twisting. Louis sighs happily, blowing his fringe out of his eyes, and stretches his hands above his head to grab the headboard as he start to rock his hips into Nick’s hand. Nick takes that as good a sign as any to add another finger, and Louis bites his lip at the stretch but his rhythm doesn’t falter, his smile only gets broader.

 

“Turn over,” Nick says, patting at Louis’ hip. He looks displeased at having to move, but he does it anyway – if reluctantly – letting Nick shove a pillow under his hips so his arse is tilted up. Nick runs his hands from Louis’ shoulder blades, down into the dip of Louis’ lower back, before coming up over his arse and _squeezing_ , spreading him open with his thumbs. “Did I mention I missed you?”

 

Louis chuckles into the mattress, wiggling his hips enticingly.

 

“I wouldn’t know, I wasn’t listening,” he replies, and Nick can’t help but laugh. Still, he has to retaliate, so he slides two fingers back inside, watching Louis curl his toes and try not to moan. He leans over Louis and kisses his way down his back as he scissors his fingers, drawing it out because he loves it when Louis gets pushy.

 

“ _Well_?” Louis asks in his most demanding voice, pointing at the bedside table where Nick keeps his condoms. Nick tucks a third finger in as he reaches across to fumble in the drawer, just because, even though it turns out to be incredibly challenging to roll a condom on _and_ a coat of lube with his left hand. Pushing in is such an odd mixture of relief and torture that Nick isn’t quite sure if his arms are going to be able to hold him up. Louis is _tight_ – he always is, but it’s been a while for both of them, and Nick feels light headed as he bottoms out, hips flush against Louis’ arse.

 

“Fucking _hell_ , Lou,” he rasps, lowering himself down to his elbows so his chest is pressed up against Louis’ back, their hot skin sticking together. He rolls his hips experimentally, pulling out to the tip before sinking in again, and Louis shudders beneath him. He starts pumping his hips, picking up a quick rhythm straight away, because Louis doesn’t seem in the mood for a slow fuck today. It’s hard to breathe like this, panting hotly into the side of Louis’ throat, their skin pressed together from head to toe, but Louis’ clutching at the headboard and panting out these little high-pitched huffs at every thrust and Nick doesn’t think he could move away if he tried. He’s barely pulling out now, just rolling their hips together and dragging his cock against Louis’ prostate. He slides his hand between the pillow and Louis’ hips, just barely managing to wrap his hand around Louis’ cock when he comes, his body tensing sharply and trying to curl in on itself. Louis’ legs double up, heels knocking against Nick’s hipbones; he’s fucking _whimpering_ and Nick’s orgasm comes so fast it’s almost painful.

 

Nick’s still rocking his hips with the aftershocks, and Louis’ gasping for breath against the sheets, his fingers curling and uncurling on the headboard. Nick rolls them both to the side, still inside, and winces as Louis wiggles his hips to get Nick to slip out. He kisses at Louis’ shoulders, fingers tracing absent patterns on his stomach until Louis catches his fingers in his own.

 

“I want a shower,” Louis says, rubbing the tips of their fingers together.

 

“Nnghhz,” Nick replies, his eyes already closed. He tugs Louis back against his chest and tightens his arms, tucking Louis’ head under Nick’s chin, and Louis doesn’t seem to be in the mood to put up much of a fight.

 

Nick’s exhausted, probably won’t manage to stay awake for more than five minutes, so he makes the most of the post-coital bliss while he can.

 

The bed smells just like Louis.

 

 

 


End file.
